


Needlework

by ladyofthesilent



Series: The Exorcism-Verse [2]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofthesilent/pseuds/ladyofthesilent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after "Exorcism". Jack and Lizzie are finally together, chasing Barbossa and the Black Pearl when Lizzie takes a closer look at Jack's scars …</p><p>As this fic is based on my multichapter-fic "Exorcism", "At World's End" is not considered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needlework

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Jack and Lizzie belong to each other, everything else to the mouse.
> 
> Beta: lj-user sparrows_swann

Five days now. Five days in which the salty air and the ever-present rocking of the ship had come to change in feel and meaning, no longer distant reminders of childhood-dreams and unfulfilled promises of unrelenting freedom, but solid and almost stable pillars of something that was home now. Not the kind of home she was brought up with, no place she could always return to, but an emotional retreat that existed in a world different from the one she'd known so far. A colour-filled, light-flooded and ever moving universe in which everything seemed to fade behind the glorious present, the past nothing more than a single cloud in a bright-blue sky, and she'd come to savour each second spent there.

A change of tide had gripped the nameless junk and its crew, and though they were still hunting the Black Pearl and its treacherous Captain, the ship seemed to possess its own grace now, breaking the waves as proud and confident as any galleon. Jack's men couldn't have missed what was going on, not after he had ordered Marty to take her things from the small closet she'd slept in to the Captain's cabin, but she didn't care. No one on board seemed to begrudge their new-found happiness and confidence, not even Gibbs whose misgivings about women she was well-acquainted with ever since she'd met him for the first time during her crossing from England so many years ago. True enough, she had seen him perform a strange ceremony that involved jumping in circles and crossing himself, but the genuine affection he felt for Jack was stronger than his superstitious nature and after he'd spat on the floor twice, he'd smiled and ordered Cotton to cook a dinner so extensive the devil himself wouldn't be able to resist it.

So she'd become a member of Jack Sparrow's crew, under the starlit sky, where she emptied a bottle of red wine from Jack's personal supplies while Jack and Marty sang sentimental duets, accompanied by Cotton's squeaking fiddle and the croaked protest of his parrot. Later, in Jack's cabin, he took her drunkenly before they both fell into an exhausted sleep, merry with wine, rum and the thing they didn't talk about, unspoken between them and she felt that there was no need to discuss the fact that she loved him.

The following days were a mixture of hard work, longing glances and rushed lovemaking between two watches, contrasting the nights which were reserved to tenderness and slow exploration, and it was in those nights she learned that his underlying darkness was more than just a ghost left behind in Port Royal. He was still loathe to take off the scarf wrapped around his head and there were scars that caused him to flinch whenever she touched them, his eyes burning with memories of pain and humiliation, and she knew she would never be able to fight his demons as he'd done with hers.

One night, she lay awake in the dim light of the one candle he always kept alive, watching the flickering shadows caressing his sleeping form. He was resting on his stomach, one leg slightly bend and his arms wrapped around his pillow, hugging it tightly. It surprised her he was such a quiet sleeper, never talking or moving about, but it almost seemed the silence he couldn't endure during his wake was finally granted him in sleep and she wondered if it had always been like that.

The air around them was hot and sticky, filled with wax, rum and the faint reminders of their love-making, covering his body with sweat and depriving her of sleep altogether. Where his braids didn't reach, his back was a strange reflection of the life he led, tanned skin, roughened in some places and scars the cause of which she'd never learn, mirroring his soul. He'd been whipped more than once, stabbed in the back and slashed open with a sharp blade, and though all of his wounds had healed on the surface, the reminders would always be visible, marking him for life as did the "P" Beckett had branded into his right forearm.

It was odd, she mused, fate had chosen him of all people to be mauled in such a horrible way, a strange craving of nature to destroy something beautiful. She briefly wondered what he would have looked like without the scars, the braided hair and the dirt, but found she didn't really care. What he was to her, he'd become with all the edges and dark places, a wild and independent being no one should ever dare to tame or cage, and she wouldn't have wanted it to be otherwise.

Still, it was uncommonly hard for her to look at him like that, safe and sound in sleep, but knowing that the peace was always illusionary. He'd cheated death more than once now and it was difficult to believe he could get away so easily, should fate strike again. One more bullet, one stab or slash, and he could be gone forever, carried away on a violent, crimson-coloured stream to a place not meant for her to follow. She suddenly felt cold, so very cold and alone, despite the heat and his warm body by her side, lying so still she found it hard to imagine he was breathing at all. _You're being stupid,_ she told herself, but it didn't help, not at all. People died in sleep, and she'd read about someone who'd been poisoned from the inside because they'd been unable to extract a bullet in his leg. How was she to know that the bullets in Jack's chest were gone?

And what about his general health? He probably didn't go to see a physician in regular intervals, so he might very well be ill without knowing it. Or maybe he knew but didn't tell her. She looked at him again, leaning closer, and when she reached out to touch his shoulder, she was convinced she'd feel skin as dead and cold as the waters at World's End. Her fingers brushed over his body, hesitantly and fearful, a touch designed for an object so frangible it might turn to dust under her grip, but it was enough for Jack to wake with a start and glare at her wide-eyed. There was not even the faintest suggestion of fatigue in his voice, asking, "What has happened?", while he readied himself to get up, obviously believing his duty as Captain was required

Elizabeth startled, but relief came only an instant later, carrying the comforting realization that it had been nothing but a nightmare, born from fear of losing him to an enemy she could not beat. She smiled at him weakly and shook her head.

"Nothing. It's just that … I … ." And she found she couldn't tell him. He would think her childish and stupid, not yet prepared for the life she chose and her company only a hindrance to him. She wanted to be the friend and lover he'd wished for her to be, not a child that needed his comfort at night, unable to suppress thoughts and feelings for which there was no place in their world.

"What is it, Lizzie?" he asked, making himself comfortable again.

"I … I must have touched you … accidentally … . Sorry for that, let's go back to sleep." The sound of it might not have been very convincing, but he ought to have gotten her point anyway. She didn't want to talk about it and he'd better accept it – though she should have known he wouldn't!

"And this makes you pale like you've just seen a ghost? Come on now, don't try to fool ol' Jack!"

"I … I had a bad dream," she finally admitted. "But no need to worry about it. It was … unimportant."

"Important enough to scare the hell out of you! So let me suggest something: You tell me about that dream, I'll listen and when you've finished, I'll tell you it was unimportant which means we both can go back to sleep. Savvy?" He lifted one arm and patted on the mattress right next to him, inviting her to move closer.

Oh, this was a bad idea. Really bad. But she wanted to be in his arms right now, wanted to feel his heartbeat and the heat of his body while he wrapped his arms around her and told her that everything would be alright, even though she'd know it was a lie, and when she rested her back against his chest, even the fears that had shaken her only seconds ago seemed to lose their initial horror.

"So what is it now?" he asked, his breathing soft against her ear and she snuggled closer, contemplating how much truth she could afford entrusting to him.

"I don't know … don't know if it was exactly a dream," she began somewhat awkwardly. "Jack?"

"Yes, luv." His hand absentmindedly stroked her belly, a gesture almost too soft and caring for him, and suddenly, the fear of losing this – _him_ – returned with full force.

"What do I do if you … if you die?" she burst out, holding her breath at the realization she'd actually said it. He'd probably laugh at her, kiss her and tell her what a strange little thing she was and she'd be grateful, telling him he was right before watching him dozing off again. But none of it happened. His hand on her body stopped moving and she felt him tense, the forced "Die?" that escaped his lips anything but the light-hearted, comforting reaction she'd been hoping for.

She turned around to face him, his arm still dragged over her hip, and she thought he looked serious, like something had been ripped open; something he'd desperately sought to fight but now found himself faced with.

"All those scars … ," Elizabeth whispered faintly, pressing her hand against the bullet scars on his chest. His fingers closed over hers and she rested her forehead against his collarbone, feeling his quickening breath.

"I told you not to look at them too closely," he said with a low voice, almost reproachfully. "They're reminders of the past, nothing less, nothing more. And I survived all of them – did I not?"

"You did." _Don't think about the kiss_ , she told herself. _Don't think about the way you killed him._ "But one day … one day you might get injured. And then, then there's nothing I can do and you'll die and then …"

"Lizzie, you DO realize that in most cases, there IS something one can do, don't you?" he interrupted her, and it sounded like he was talking to himself, trying to convince himself that there was always a way. Funny how she'd never seen him like this, though this was exactly what his optimism had always been about. He was neither mad nor naïve, it was just that it was easier to run between the raindrops if you told yourself you could do it, and if he managed to persuade her that it was possible to run between her fears, she found she'd gladly believe him.

"Like what?" she asked, curious on the explanation he'd offer her.

"Well, none of my wounds ever closed magically. Most of them were, in fact, stitched."

Now that surely wasn't the magical, reassuring thing she'd expected him to say. Stitching didn't sound good to her, not at all. It sounded hard to imagine, somewhat painful and the thought of it did nothing to allay her fears.

"Stitched? But how? And by whom?"

"When you plunder a ship, the first thing you should look out for is NOT silver and gold, but books and medical supplies. There's a good chance you get some bandages, needles and some ointment – along with a script that tells you how to use them. In fact, if you're lucky, there's someone on board who has some experience with surgery. A few years back, I sailed with an Irishman named O'Malley who'd served as a surgeon's mate in the Royal Navy before he realized he couldn't see blood and favoured a career in piracy. In most cases, he managed to sew up a gash very neatly before he fainted."

"Jack!"

Propping himself up on his elbow, he lifted a hand and said pompously: "I swear by all things sacred to me, including my rum-supplies: It's the truth!"

She sighed, still unable to believe a word of what he'd said. It sure was obvious some wounds could be treated like that, but most probably not among pirates, much less by a crew-member, no matter what his background was. However, it had proved useless in the past to argue with Jack on the substance of his stories when he was in the mood for spinning yarns and today would be no exception. "Well, I guess we should leave it at that," she said, then added: "But what if there's no surgeon or his mate on board?"

Her question was meant as some sort of challenge, a test how far he would be able to take this, but when he looked down at her, he seemed dead-serious.

"Then, my dear, you have to rely on ol' Jack."

At this, she couldn't help but give him a faint smile, carrying only the tiniest trace of reproach for not taking her seriously.

"Now you're most obviously talking nonsense."

"I may not possess O'Malley's skills, but I've read about it and I think I can do well enough if the situation at hand requires my services as a surgeon. It's actually quite easy. You give the injured man a bottle of rum – though that's the part of it that pains me most – and when you feel he's had enough, you hold the needle into a flame and just sew the wound – like you would sew a sail or a shirt. You apply some ointment, bandages – and that's it!"

"Sounds easy enough," she replied, sceptically. "But the question is: Have _you_ ever really done it?"

"Of course I have. Ask Gibbs, he'll tell you."

"Gibbs would confirm you escaped from that island by tying sea-turtles to your feet."

"I told you, he always sticks to the truth as close as it gets!" he smiled, but suddenly fell grave again. "Lizzie, you really can trust me on this one. If you're out here for as long as I've been, you learn how to survive. You have to! No one's keen on dying, least of all myself. I've died once and I have to admit, it was not that pleasant an experience, so for as long as I can avoid it, it won't happen again. I'm not very good at making promises, but this one, I'll make. I promise."

She looked at him wide-eyed, not knowing what to say. "So …," she began, unsure what to do while he was eyeing her expectantly.

"I'm waiting."

"What … for?"

"You know, I just promised you to watch out for myself and I expect nothing less from the woman I'm sharing my bed with. I'm not dear William, I won't run around declaring that I'd die for you. Not to say I wouldn't, you know … but I'd prefer some assurance from your side that you won't do anything rash or stupid. It'd be a shame, that pretty body of yours littered with scars and such … might not like it, not at all."

He bent down, his lips barely touching the soft skin just below her collarbone and she closed her eyes, sighing. There, in the back of her head, she still could hear the faint echo of what he'd just said, a carefully worded expression of what he felt for her, and even if he'd told her straight out he loved her, it couldn't have been more touching and reassuring than the confession that she meant as much to him as he did to her.

"Promise me," he whispered, his breath hot on her skin, and she found herself craving for his touch.

"Yes," she managed to say, "I promise." She didn't really know whether she actually meant it, but it was of no importance, of none at all. What mattered was that right now, in this room and in this universe, they were together and neither of them would have wanted it to be otherwise.

His mouth descended upon her breast, caressing her with his tongue and she gasped, both of her hands tangling in his braids to keep him close. He took his time, memorizing her body, as if he were to taste it for the last time, but there was only the slightest trace of urgency, an underlying violence in the way his teeth scraped over her skin, leaving bite-marks all over her chest and shoulders.

She pulled him on top, wrapping her legs around his middle while he ravished her mouth, drowning her in sensations that seemed as inconceivable and mysterious as the man who caused them. Her nails dug into his flesh, bruising his shoulders and she lifted her hips against his hardness, a silent invitation to end this sweet misery they both were in and finally take her. He seemed to contemplate the matter, but when his hands trailed down, he gripped her hips, forcing her to let go of him.

"Let me do something else …," he whispered, kissing his way down across her throat again.

"Jack, what …"

"Shh … you'll like this, I promise ... just let me …"

His hands spread over her thighs, gently pulling them apart and before she could even tell what was happening, she felt his moustache brushing over the dampness between her legs, his breath like a cooling breeze on her heated flesh. _He couldn't possibly want to do what she thought he was on the verge of doing – or could he?_ She now knew it had a … _certain_ effect on men, but she'd never heard of such a thing on a woman, in fact, she couldn't really imagine how … and, _oh_ , well, maybe _like that. Just like that_ …

And then, she felt unable to focus on anything but what his lips and tongue were doing, teasing her until she arched up to push herself further into that finely carved mouth of his, and he finally took some mercy on her and sucked on the little nub that was the centre of her pleasure. She moaned, knowing she wouldn't last long if he kept on doing this, but when both of her hands tangled in his hair, pulling on his braids, he pushed two fingers inside of her dripping channel, croaking them, and she almost jumped off the mattress on the maddening feel he caused, stroking her from the inside without ever taking his mouth away.

"Jack …," she moaned, intending to tell him he had to stop this now, that she wanted him inside, but her voice failed her and she couldn't help but surrender to the quickening pace of his hand and tongue, bringing her closer to the edge with every agonizing stroke. This time, release didn't come in tender waves, but like a violent storm crashing down upon her with full force, drowning her. Her muscles gripped his fingers, drawing him further inside while she was thrashing helplessly, holding on to his hair for support until she was completely drained, unable to take any more of the intense pleasure he'd caused her to feel.

He withdrew and rested his head on her stomach, completely out of breath. They remained like that for a few moments, her hands lazily roaming over his shoulders and she wondered how it was he always managed to surprise her with something new and unexpected. He'd told her that the ancients had written whole books about all the things men and women could do together, but she would never have expected him to be the skilful and gentle lover he most obviously was. This was no man who'd spent all of his life sleeping with whores and strumpets, and once more she found she knew almost nothing about him and his past.

"Who taught you that?" she finally managed to ask, her voice still hoarse and somewhat distant.

He sat up and looked down upon her, quite obviously pleased with himself.

"That, my dear, will have to remain secret … but whoever it was, she did a good job, did she not?"

"Oh, don't be smug about your abilities, _Captain_ ," she teased him, smiling slyly. "You did … alright. About her, I cannot say …"

"Alright? Did you just say alright?" He gasped, pretending to be offended. "Well, I guess this means I have to challenge you." Lying back down on the bed, he stretched lasciviously and she couldn't fail noticing he was still aroused, his neglected erection resting against his stomach. "So you think you can do it better?" he asked defiantly. "Then show me …"

"Aye," she replied, while she got on her knees and crouched over him. "That I will … ."

He'd taught her how to do it two nights ago and there could be no doubt this was a task worth perfecting. It was all about power and trust, about the willingness to surrender, and she had every intention to make him lose control like he'd done with her. She kissed her way up his thigh, biting down occasionally and he moaned in frustration when she moved over to his other leg without even touching his shaft, repeating her actions. He was completely at her mercy now and she couldn't help but delight in the helpless state he was in, taking her time while she licked across his balls and he arched up, trying to direct her mouth where he needed it most. She smiled inwardly and ran her tongue up and down his stirring erection, finally touching him but not quite granting him the satisfaction of her soft, warm mouth wrapped around his hardness.

"Lizzie," he moaned, sounding inarticulate and wanton. "'tis not fair …"

She pulled away and looked up, savouring the expression on his face. "Do you want me to stop?"

"Never …"

His head fell back and he groaned in complete abandonment when she finally wrapped her fingers around the base and began to stroke him, her tongue running over the head, licking up the tiny drops of salty fluid that had collected there. His hands tangled in her hair, forcing her down upon him and she complied, taking him into her mouth as far as she could manage without gagging. She moved her head like he'd instructed her, stroking with her hand where her lips couldn't reach and using her tongue on his length until he yanked her away, breathing hard. Well, she now knew what this meant, too. He thrust into her fist once more before he came, biting his lower lip while he covered her hand with his seed and she kept on stroking him until he softened beneath her grip.

She pulled away and wiped her hand on the sheet, already used to the unavoidable mess this act always created, while she watched him regain his senses. He lay there completely motionless, cheeks flushed and shimmering with sweat, his hands clutching the blanket as if he was still in need of holding on to something. Moving up until she was resting next to him, she propped herself up on her elbow and smiled down at him as he slowly opened his eyes, looking somewhat dishevelled.

"You won," he croaked and she almost burst out with laughter at the thought that what they'd just done could have taken on the character of a competition.

"I'd say the score's level now …," she grinned, resting her head against his shoulder.

He yawned and half-heartedly pulled a blanket to their hips before wrapping an arm around her middle and brushing her hair aside to plant a scratchy kiss on her temple. She felt herself already dozing off to sleep, exhausted and sated, when she heard his voice sleepily against her ear.

"By the way," he said, "if you find me injured and there's nothing else you can do, you can always go and kidnap a surgeon … ."


End file.
